


who knows

by kabrox18



Category: Crysis Series (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, this isnt gay but it... kinda is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 21:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: “Oi. Do me a favor, yeah? Come out for me. Make this easier.”“You never liked easy,” comes a familiar rasp, and he scowls—nose wrinkled and all—at the dimly glowing visor that appears.“Thought you were missing. Or dead. Or both,” he sniffs.“Dead is a flexible term.”--In which a couple of post-humans bunk together.





	who knows

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> old farts being old farts, ig. lots of stubbornness. this may be added to if i get the drive.

“I recently spent some time at one of your medical facilities, and I’d like to file a complaint,” Psycho drawls, smug as hell. He pulls his feet down from the desk, and downs the CELL guard before he can even mouth back. The two others go down rather suddenly, without any effort of his behalf;  _ that  _ makes him sit up.

 

The darkness of the room—the area in general, really—lends him no favors, and he’s left squinting at the terrified VIPs. Just two, this time. Shame. He goes to stand, staring as one collapses in a heap, and the other is swat aside, slumping against the wall and coughing, too winded to do much besides sit there.

 

“Oi. Do me a favor, yeah? Come out for me. Make this easier.”

 

“You never liked easy,” comes a familiar rasp, and he scowls—nose wrinkled and all—at the dimly glowing visor that appears.

 

“Thought you were missing. Or dead. Or  _ both, _ ” he sniffs.

 

“Dead is a flexible term.” Psycho rolls his eyes, and looks down to the still-conscious person struggling off to the side.

 

“He’s not incapacitated.”

 

“Figured I wouldn’t steal  _ all _ your thunder.” A dry little chuckle—because of course.

 

“I could shoot you,” Psycho points out, lifting his rifle just a bit.

 

“No you couldn’t,” Prophet retorts. He tilts his head slightly, and watches that rifle point toward his leg. His gaze holds something flavored like indifference, really, or disinterest. “Just because the bullet hits me doesn’t mean it hurts.”

 

“You always were a melodramatic piece of work, Proph, but this is a new low for you.”

 

“Are-are you  _ arguing?  _ Or  _ flirting? _ ” The VIP wheezes. Prophet gives a tinny, odd noise that might have been a scoff. Psycho shoots a warning look up to him. He considers mouthing  _ don’t,  _ then has second thoughts. He flaps his mouth shut, and takes a step back.

 

“Well Mister Fancy Pants,” he starts, but it cuts off when Prophet comes closer again, closing the distance easily. Damn that visor, for staring at him like  _ that,  _ so… frustratingly unreadable.

 

“Well what? I thought you wanted them  _ incapacitated? _ ” It sounds innocent, harmless, and like utter bullshit.

 

“Oh you’re just full of it-“

 

“Full of what?” Suddenly that visor is  _ right there. _ Psycho’s breath leaves little brushes of foggy warmth across it, just barely visible on the red glow.

 

“Full of  _ shit.  _ Plus, you’re full of  _ no sense of personal space. _ ” He shoves Prophet ineffectively, and stumbles back, grunting in annoyance. He moves to go around, griping more under his breath, but is frozen when one hefty hand wraps clear around his wrist.

 

“You always were shit at lying, Psycho, but… this is a new low for you.” He’s spitting his own words at him, now?

 

“Piss off,” he grumps, and tugs uselessly on his arm.

 

“Flirting. Definitely flirting,” the VIP mumbles.

 

“Shut up,” they both echo, then look to each other.

 

“You owe me a coke,” Prophet snarks. He’s promptly whacked.

 

“You think you’re  _ soooo _ funny.”

 

“Because I am.” He’s being insufferably smug. Insufferable in general, actually. Psycho points this out in a mutter, casting a glance to the now-standing person behind them.

 

“Aren’t you going to shoot me? Or were you being literal about that complaint?” 

 

Prophet looks over Psycho’s head at them, and they decide to be quiet.

 

“It’d be nice if you shot them,” he deadpans, looking back down.

 

“I would if you didn’t have my arm in your kung-fu grip,” he mocks back. Prophet finally lets go with a facsimile of a sigh, and backs off just a bit.

 

“Hey, um, I wasn’t being serious, I don’t wanna get shot, oh god! Please!”

 

“Are they all this bitchy?” Prophet questions, immediately after the shot is fired.

 

“Eh. I usually kill ‘em a bit quicker than that. Would help if you pulled your own weight around here.”

 

“Was that a joke? Out of  _ you? _ It’s a damn miracle.”

 

“Alright wise guy, now what? You gunna sneak off now that you said hi and pissed me off?”

 

“On the contrary. Put these guys out of commission. We need to talk.” His tone dips, slightly, toward the range that sounds closer to a  _ purr _ than anything else.

 

“Something tells me ‘talking’ isn’t what we’re going to be doing,” he grumbles.

 

“Hurry up. Don’t need them running home with reports of me being here.” Odd, how he doesn’t deny or confirm  that accusation.

 

—

 

“So. Talking,” Psycho deadpans, ignoring the insistence in the way Prophet shoves the suit’s snout against his neck.

 

“We can’t talk and be comfortable at the same time?” It’s a damnably soft grumble, one of content. Psycho’s warm, and he’s leeching off that heat happily.

 

“You feel like  _ ice _ on me,” he whines. It just earns a satisfied little grunt when he finally finds the position that’s most comfortable for both of them. Then promptly shoves his hands up under at least three layers, settling them against the warmth of his core. Psycho squirms at the cold, hisses something that sounds like gibberish, and tries to worm away.

 

“Mmm… I haven’t been this warm in a while,” Prophet mumbles, curling around him more firmly, disallowing any further escape attempts.

 

“What are you, a lizard?” It’s hissy, still, but at least he gives up on getting away.

 

“We were going to talk,” he points out softly, choosing not to grace the half-insult with a response.

 

“Yeh. So talk.” He sighs in resignation as Prophet flops onto his back, still holding Psycho still. He doesn’t start, right away, turning his face into his neck more and giving a grumpy rumble. “Alright, you. You’re mostly computer, right? You should like running cold. So get your hands out of my shirt, and start talking.”

 

No response.

 

“...Prophet?” He tries. Nothing. “Uh, Proph. Hey.” He tries to look back, only for his jaw to stop against visor. He elbows at him lightly, getting a bit worried, and earns a groan of annoyance.

 

“Tired.” It sounds like an  _ order,  _ which is odd.

 

“I thought you didn’t need to sleep?”

 

“Don’t  _ need _ to.” He then shifts, tipping over slightly. Psycho sighs, again, and listens to the sounds outside the spot they’re bunkered in. The light above them hums almost-imperceptibly, and he can feel movement below himself, although he hears no breathing or anything out of him. Strange, but unsurprising, really.

 

Eventually, he can’t bear it any longer and dozes off himself.

 

...Only to be awoken a handful of hours later by abrupt movement.

 

Prophet grunts, somewhere left and above him, lifting his face away from Psycho’s neck, making a string of groggy, distorted noises while everything comes properly online. His vision goes sharp again, and he looks down to his companion, who’s reading as half-awake too. He settles back down onto his elbow.

 

“Why’d you move?” Psycho mumbles, cracking one eye.

 

“I woke up.”

 

“Clearly.” He yawns, stretches with a grunt, and flips onto his back to look almost fondly to Prophet, who obligingly lays back down against him. “You pulled your hands out of my shirt, finally.”

 

“I could always slide ‘em back in,” he points out, messing with the hem of the outer layer as a half-assed threat. Psycho bats the appendage away, huffing a bit.

 

“No, don’t.”

 

“Just saying.” It sounds like he’s grinning, dammit, and he swats back at Psycho’s hand.

 

“You’re an asshole.”

 

“I know. But you put up with me anyway.”

 

“It takes all my patience.”

 

“Sure,” he says, nodding a bit. It’s sarcastic. Psycho eyeballs the visor.

 

“You know, if that wasn’t in the way, I’d poke ya.”

 

“Oh, you  _ wound _ me.” He sits up properly, hunching a little and rubbing absently at the back of his head. Psycho pouts when he stands, straightening and grunting as he rolls his shoulders—forward once, and back.

 

“Do I have to get up too?”

 

“No.” He feels eyes follow him out, and tells himself he didn’t shiver at the lack of warmth.

 

—

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

Prophet lifts his head, slightly, and looks over. Psycho drops into a crouch beside him, hand settling on the concrete to brace himself.

 

“Keeping watch.”

 

“This whole time?” Disbelief, there, and he shrugs one shoulder lazily.

 

“Pretty much. CELL knows about your hit-and-runs. They just don’t know about me being here.”

 

“You been listening to comm chatter?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Psycho drops a hand against his back, the warmth quickly soaking into the heavy carbon fibers. It’s so sudden that it almost startles him, but he drones out a low purr instead, enjoying the heat.

 

“You know, I could’ve given you a blanket. I know you don’t really generate heat anymore, but it would’ve kept what you soaked up.” He doesn’t comment on the purring, instead brushing his thumb along the line between two strips of artificial muscle.

 

“Maybe,” Prophet drawls, having lost interest in his watch. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

“Sure it does. You’ve been doing all this shit, right? Orchestrating the removal of aliens, and all that. You’ve earned at least a bloody  _ blanket,  _ Proph.” He pats that spot on his back, and levers himself up with a light grunt. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“Where are you going?”  


 

“Just gimme a minute.” Unfortunately, he’s ignored, Prophet following him down the stairs into the shallow main room of the not-too-deep bunker. He hates the dull feeling of being cut from the rest of the world like this—SECOND throws an icon in the corner of his vision, a notification that wireless communication is offline. As if he wasn’t already aware.

 

“Psycho.”

 

“Told you to wait, impatient bastard,” he grouses, pulling a fleece sheet out of a box, draping it up and around Prophet, and lightly slaps the suit’s jaw, shaking his head at him. “Is that better?”

 

“No.”

 

“Of course not.” He just,  _ sighs. _ Prophet follows him, again, as he trails off to turn the little space heater on. It’s a cylinder, metal grate wrapped around the element. The switch is on the wire, which is pushed into a yellowed-plastic surge protector. The heater lights up, and Psycho shoves a chair over, patting the back.

 

“What?”

 

“Sit.”

 

“Why?” He looks down at the chair.

 

“Just do it,” he snaps. Finally, he does, settling back into it and pulling the blanket around himself properly. Psycho nudges the heater a bit closer, and he can feel it soak into him.

 

“Now. Stay put for a bit, I’ll take watch.”

 

“Psycho, no. I can handle it-“ he goes to stand back up, but is promptly tipped off-balance, right back into the seat.

 

“ _ Prophet,  _ no. Stay. Put.” He points at the visor sternly. “I got this. Just hang out for a bit.” With that, he turns, heads up the stairs, and disappears through the almost horizontal door.

 


End file.
